


Soft Shock

by sincerelymendacious



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Anal Sex, Forbidden Love, Hair-stroking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Shocks, early-morning sex, nk is lowkey submissive, power-bottom ornstein, sex in a tent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25276309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelymendacious/pseuds/sincerelymendacious
Summary: It is near dawn, and the time for Ornstein to sneak back to his tent is fast approaching.
Relationships: The Nameless King/Dragon Slayer Ornstein
Comments: 13
Kudos: 46





	Soft Shock

**Author's Note:**

> yooo first Dark Souls fic, hopefully not the last. I've loved this series for years and this pairing has taken over my brain. 
> 
> All names for NK are valid but I'm fond of using Gwynsen so that's what I did here.

Through the slight gap that separates the tent’s flaps, the edges of the sky could be seen to have lightened. Dawn has not yet arrived, but it is fast approaching, and the time has nearly come for Ornstein to rise from his Prince’s bed, don his armor, and sneak back into his tent like some servant scurrying back to their quarters after an illicit tryst. There are many excuses that can be made to explain why the Captain of the Silver Knights might be seen entering the Prince’s tent late at night, but any assertion of innocent intent would fall flat were he to be seen leaving it hours later, in the light of day. 

His exit is impeded by a weight atop him. The still slumbering Prince rests with his head upon Ornstein’s chest, his breath ghosting over his skin. Both of his arms are still wrapped around Ornstein, hands pressed to the center of his back; an embrace that does not loosen even during sleep. It is always like this, with the Prince clinging tightly to him, making it impossible for Ornstein to remove himself without disturbing him in some way. 

Were it up to the Prince, they would remain in this languid state long after the rest of the camp had begun to stir, past what could be considered appropriate. Ornstein knows that this forced discretion rankles the Prince, who is accustomed to speaking his mind and hiding nothing of himself, for good or for ill. Still, a compromise has been worked out; Ornstein shall not leave the Prince’s bed without waking him beforehand, and in return, Gwynsen will not keep him when the time eventually comes for him to go. So far, the Prince has not violated the terms of this agreement, although he does have a tendency to test its limits- a lingering kiss here, a strong grasp there, and many promises of the pleasure that awaits Ornstein should he stay ‘just a little longer.’ 

Risky as the behavior may be, Ornstein cannot help but find Gwynsen’s need to keep him close immensely gratifying. This gratification has brought life to an idea both wild and foolish; that he and Gwysen can be together like this once they are off the battlefield and back in Anor Londo, where the walls have ears and the watchful eyes of Lord Gwyn are abundant. Gwynsen’s own predictions of the future and frequent proclamations of affection only further seed the idea that this can continue indefinitely into Ornstein’s mind, and it takes great effort on his part to weed it out. He knows that indulging in such an impossible fantasy can only lead to more hurt. 

Better that he indulge in something more tangible, like carding his fingers through the silver strands of his Prince’s hair. It is much different from his own long, deep auburn locks; the feel of it is much coarser and it appears wild and windblown even when the Prince is not in the midst of battle. Small shocks kiss Ornstein’s fingers as they pass through-Gwynsen brims with so much energy that it seeks release even when the man is at rest. Ornstein repeats the action, still as fascinated with this quirk in the Prince’s anatomy as he was the first day he discovered it. The sparks do not hurt. If anything, they are strangely invigorating, almost like tiny bits of Gwynsen’s power are being given over to him.

A soft sound escapes the Prince’s throat the third time Ornstein’s nails gently rake over his scalp. Gwynsen stirs, his eyes fluttering open momentarily before closing again. “Do not try to feign sleep,” Ornstein admonishes playfully, poking the Prince’s cheek with his finger. “I saw your eyes open.”

Gwynsen chooses to ignore this, turning his head so that his whole face is pressed into Ornstein’s chest. Ornstein raises his gaze to the tent’s canvas ceiling, fondly exasperated by the Prince’s continued ruse.  _ There is still time,  _ he thinks. It is not the first time that phrase has popped into his head on mornings like this; it has in fact been thought so frequently that it may as well be the motto of their relationship. 

Ornstein returns his attention back to the Prince, raising his head slightly. A stray lock of hair tickles his bottom lip. Ornstein blows it away and then, because he can, places his hand on the back of Gwynsen’s head and begins rubbing small circles into his scalp. The shocks come again, bringing sensations strange and delightful. Ornstein revels in it, revels in the fact he- and no one else- is allowed to take such liberties with the God of War. 

The Prince’s lips curve against his skin as his fingers curl inward. A sigh of contentment slips out when Ornstein digs his nails in a little harder, and the sound, soft as it is, sends a small pulse of excitement racing through him. “It would be best for you to end this farce,” he says. He does not say why, for the note of implication should be enough to motivate Gwynsen into rousing himself. 

And he does, somewhat. Gwynsen raises his head, the point of his chin resting in the middle of Ornstein’s chest. During combat, the Prince’s eyes are a blazing gold, as bright and furious as the lightning stakes he slings at his enemies. At this moment they are a warm amber, half-lidded with sleep and glowing with fondness rather than wrath. Much as Ornstein admires Gwynsen’s battle prowess, he has to admit a preference for this look, seen only during close, intimate encounters. “It was not my intent to engage in farce,” he says, his near-whisper like a rumble of distant thunder, “for I truly did believe myself to still be at rest.” He slides his hand out from underneath Ornstein and brings it to the knight’s face, brushing a lock of hair off of his forehead. “Beauty such as yours seems something only to be found in a dream.” 

Ornstein scoffs, rolling his eyes, though the tinge of red coloring the high points of his cheeks reveals the effect the words have on him. “Must your first utterance of the day be such saccharine nonsense?” he asks, returning the Prince’s smile with one of his own. 

The Prince affects a pout, pretending to be stung by the question. “I speak only the truth,” he says before pressing a kiss in the space between Ornstein’s pectorals. “And my fair knight rewards me by lashing out at me with that sharp tongue of his.” 

Ornstein snorts at Gwynsen’s dramatics. “Thought you enjoyed being lashed by my tongue,” he says, letting his hand drift down to the base of Gwynsen’s neck. “You certainly weren’t complaining before.” 

Gwynsen cocks a grin. “That is because you used it in a much sweeter manner,” he says, eyes sparkling like light reflecting off of a gem. He slides forward, the slight movement sending a thrill through Ornstein. He lifts himself up just enough so that his lips can meet the Prince’s. The kiss that follows is slow, gentle, but still manages to stoke desire in them both. Gwynsen is naturally the one to push his tongue deeper into Ornstein’s mouth, and were it up to him, they would be at this all day. But Ornstein cannot toss his responsibilities aside, and thus it is he who breaks the kiss. “That had best be sweet enough to satisfy you,” he says, “for I must rise now.” The statement is blunt, and perhaps a little unkind, given the nature of their previous activities, but Ornstein has learned that Gwynsen will stretch anything less direct out by pretending not to understand. 

This time, the Prince’s petulant expression is a true reflection of his feelings-Ornstein can tell from the dent that appears between his brows. “The sun has not yet risen,” he says, with all the offended dignity of a disparaged child. 

“How would you know?” Ornstein counters. “Are you able to see through canvas?” 

“The Heir of Sunlight does not need to see the sky to know when dawn has broken,” Gwynsen replies simply. As he speaks, he traces a finger along the line of Ornstein’s collar bone. The touch, light as it is, leaves behind a trail of heat. 

“By that logic, you must know that dawn does approach,” Ornstein points out, “and that soon, the rest of the camp will awaken.” 

Gwynsen makes an absent hum of acknowledgment as he slides his finger downward. “There was much revelry last night,” he says once he’s reached Ornstein’s nipple. “Most of the soldiers will be passed out in their bunks. Or in the bunks of their fellows, if they are lucky.” 

“But not all.” Gwynsen is now circling his finger around his nipple, and he tries to ignore how it tightens in response. “It only takes one person to start a rumor, and once it starts, it spreads faster than flame upon a wooden house, and is just as difficult to put out.” 

Gwynsen sighs, drawing his finger away. “You make your point so poetically,” he grumbles, shrugging. “Fine. Leave me here to pine after you in this cold, lonely bed.” 

The despair in the Prince’s tone is far too exaggerated to be anything but a jest. And yet, despite having given Ornstein permission to go, Gwynsen makes no move to roll off of him. “Enough, my Prince,” he says, a sarcastic edge boldly given to the title. “Rise and let me be off.” 

Gwynsen’s body goes limp. “Ah, but this is no ploy! My dear knight has used me so aggressively that I can only lay here now, too exhausted to move a muscle!” The declaration is so ridiculous and over-the-top that he begins to laugh in the middle of speaking it.

Ornstein does not find it nearly as funny, though it is likely that he will later. “Sen,” he says, looking at the Prince with the expression he usually reserves for when his knights have become too rowdy. “You promised that you would not do this.” Although the intent is to chastise, there is still a tiny spark of delight that blooms within him in using the Prince’s nickname, reserved only for those closest to him. 

“Do what?” Gwynsen asks, all innocence. “I am not stopping you from anything. You need only free yourself from my poor, tired body and then you are free to go.” A mischievous glint appears in the Prince’s eye. “Unless you do not think you have the strength?”

It is not a serious question of Ornstein’s physical ability. The Prince is well aware of how strong his knight is, having witnessed many of his greatest feats in addition to being a frequent sparring partner. Ornstein’s pride, however, will not allow him to ignore anything that resembles a challenge. Without warning, Ornstein grasps Gwynsen’s biceps tightly, wraps his legs around his waist, and then, using both momentum and leg strength, flips Gwynsen onto his back, effectively reversing their position. 

The gasp that bursts forth from Gwynsen’s mouth is like music to Ornstein’s ears. “Well, what say you?” he asks smugly as he sits up to look down upon his Prince. “It appears I’ve enough strength to move one infirm God.” 

It is a daring thing to say to a deity, even in these circumstances. Ornstein knows he has nothing to fear in this sort of teasing-if anything, Gwynsen seems much recovered from his supposed fatigue. “My knight proves me wrong,” Gwynsen replies, smoothing his hands over Ornstein’s thighs, squeezing at his muscles in a way that sends a jolt of excitement up his spine. “You never cease to impress me, Sir Ornstein.” The words are spoken softly, though the undertone of desire is strong.

Already Ornstein’s cock twitches in response to the movement of Gwynsen’s hands over his skin, and heat begins to pool in his lower belly.  _ I have been had,  _ he thinks ruefully as he glides his hands up Gwysen’s broad chest, his fingers dancing over hard muscle and deep tan skin. He takes a moment to consider the situation, then decides that he has enough time to indulge Gwynsen- and himself- in one more round before he goes. “A clever trap you have laid for me,” Ornstein concedes as one of Gwynsen’s hands drifts to the inside of his thigh.

Again, Gwynsen plays innocent. “What’s this about a trap?” he teases, grasping Ornstein’s behind. “I see no ropes or chains constraining you.” He pauses, then adds, “although that would not be such a bad idea.” 

“Perhaps they can be added in some other time,” Ornstein says- though he thinks he may prefer to use them on Gwynsen, rather than himself. “And no, you do not physically restrain me.” He reaches behind him and takes the Prince’s cock in hand. The angle is awkward, but he is able to stroke it from head to base well enough to bring forth a deep groan from his lover. “But if I leave you in this state, you will pout and call me cruel and then everyone will wonder what I’ve done to put the commander in such an unhappy mood.” Ornstein does not mention his own want; there is no need. His body is all heat now, and the flush on his face and neck give him away. 

“What a generous view of my-” Whatever Gwynsen is about to say is cut off by a sharp intake of breath, brought on by the swipe of Ornstein’s thumb over the slit of his cock. 

“Enough banter,” Ornstein says, voice hitching as Gwynsen bucks his hips up, seeking more stimulation. “Let us get on with this.” With his free hand, he gestures toward the nightstand, at the pot of oil still left out from the previous night. Gwynsen hurries to obey the silent command, grabbing the pot and holding it up to Ornstein so that he can dip into it. Ornstein coats his fingers, rubbing them together, and then gets to work preparing himself. His fingers slide in easily, for it has not been long since that place was last used, and his cock grows stiff. It is hardly enough though- he needs to have his Prince inside him to get any real satisfaction. 

Gwynsen watches with hunger in his eyes. Once he’s put the oil aside he reaches for Ornstein’s erection and begins jerking him off, the movement of his hand rapid and slickened by the oil. “Look at you,” he says rapturously, as though Ornstein were the God and not he, “working so efficiently. You’ve no doubt got this whole thing timed down to the last second.” 

Ornstein’s skill at planning seems a strange thing to bring up just as they're about to make love. Gwysen makes these sorts of observations only when they are alone, and about aspects of Ornstein’s personality that he never would have thought worthy of the Prince’s notice. He takes a great deal of pleasure in hearing it, in knowing that he’s wanted for more than just his body. But close on the heels of that pleasure is a sadness in the knowledge that what they have cannot truly go anywhere, no matter how Gwynsen praises him or what he promises he makes.

Little point in dwelling on what he hopes is in the distant future now. He removes his fingers and raises himself up to guide the Prince’s erection inside of him. It is tempting to take him slowly, for this is the part Ornstein savors the most, with the stretch as he slides down, the anticipation of release, and the way Gwynsen’s cock hits that spot that always sends a shock of pure ecstasy down to his toes. Time is unfortunately of the essence, and so Ornstein cannot linger the way he usually likes to. That is not to say that he cannot have his fun like this. There is much enjoyment to be had in bouncing upon the Prince so quickly, particularly when he angles himself in the right way. And even more from the sight before him- Gwynsen, flat on his back, silver hair spread out across the pillow and eyes so black with arousal that only a thin ring of gold surrounds the pupil. One hand is still stroking Ornstein, the other is gripping his hip hard, fingers digging into the flesh of his ass.

Ornstein cannot help but feel a rush at seeing his Prince like this; at straddling the God of War and using him as he pleases, and in the clear delight in which that God takes in being used this way. As he moves and sighs and lets his hands roam Gwynsen’s body, he wonders which one of them will be the first to finish, and suspects that it will be himself. 

“You’ve come up with a fine way to break this bed,” the Prince manages to say between breaths and gasps. The way he thrusts up into Ornstein belies the concern somewhat. 

“It has endured rougher treatment,” Ornstein says, a bit shakily. “It can, ah, take a couple more minutes of this.” 

Gwynsen raises an eyebrow. “A couple of minutes?” he says, squeezing Ornstein’s shaft. “Credit your stamina a bit more, Sir Ornstein! I’d say you have at least twice that much time left in you!” 

The corner of Ornstein’s mouth draws upward. “Perhaps I might,” he says, “but I was merely considering your own needs.” He pauses to moan as sparks of bliss run through his body. “Were you not complaining of exhaustion earlier?”

Gwynsen chuckles, sliding his hand down to the base of Ornstein’s cock and then back up. “I was,” he murmurs.

Surprisingly, it is Gwynsen who finishes first when those couple of minutes have passed. Ornstein is not sure what triggered it, but the Prince suddenly thrusts himself upward so fast that Ornstein nearly pitches forward. It is hardly a disappointment, for Ornstein will always take an opportunity to watch the Prince as he squeezes his eyes shut and bits at his lower lip, or to feel him shudder as his orgasm ripples through his body.  _ Who would have thought that a God could look like this _ , Ornstein thinks as he strokes the Prince’s hair, the resulting shocks only further exciting him. 

A moment passes in which all that Gwynsen is able to do is lie still and catch his breath, his grip on Ornstein’s cock going slack. Ornstein allows the Prince a few seconds to recover before his own ache for release and the diminishing amount of time they have left prompt him to force Gwynsen out of his idleness. “Hey,” he says, poking Gwynsen in the chest. “Do not fall back into slumber just yet.” He gestures down at his throbbing erection. “You’ve still got me to take care of.”   
  


Gwynsen rouses himself, grinning as he wipes the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. Ornstein assumes that he will simply stroke him to completion, but the Prince actually lets go and signals for him to move up. 

“Ah,” Ornstein says as he separates himself from Gwynsen’s now soft cock. “Are you sure? It is not like I will last long either way.” 

Gwynsen’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips. That alone is enough to send a pulse of arousal through Ornstein. “If I had the time, I’d spend hours drawing my tongue over every inch of your flesh,” he says, tracing his finger along the underside of Ornstein’s cock. “As it is, I will gladly settle for a sample.” 

Ornstein is more than happy to satisfy this particular craving. He moves up to straddle Gwynsen’s chest, then presses his cock to his lips. Gwynsen eagerly takes him in, sucking on the head before taking him further in. It is not long before Ornstein is thrusting into the warm, wet mouth, encouraged by Gwynsen’s hands pulling him forward by the hips. When he comes, it is with little warning, but Gwynsen swallows it all with ease and he does not let Ornstein go until he is completely spent. 

The orgasm leaves Ornstein with that content exhaustion that comes after a battle well-fought. He looks down at Gwynsen with heavy-lidded eyes, watching the way the Prince’s throat muscles work as they swallow down what remains of his seed. His voice is thick with affection when he next speaks. “Hm, my Prince. Was that enough to satiate you?”   
  


“For a time,” Gwynsen says. His gaze follows Ornstein as he lifts himself off to lay by his side. ‘But it will not be long before I hunger for you again.” As he speaks, he slides his hand along Ornstein’s thigh, gliding up his sweat-slick skin. “I will surely be starving by midday.” 

Ornstein catches the Prince’s hand, stilling it. It is big and warm, and Ornstein would love nothing more than to have it knead his flesh as he falls back into slumber in the bed they share. A look outside the tent flaps reveals why that cannot be. With considerable reluctance, Ornstein removes Gwynsen’s hand and gives him an apologetic look. 

Gwynsen understands what he means without words, but he is far from happy about it. “Yes, I know. Let us keep this charade going for another day.” 

There’s bitterness in his tone, but it is not directed at Ornstein. More likely at the world, which, in spite of his deific status, will not let the Prince have what he truly wants. Still, he does not attempt to convince Ornstein to stay, and he in fact gets up to aid him with his armor. It was not necessary, but Ornstein appreciates it nonetheless.

As always, they share one final kiss. Ornstein draws his fingers through the Prince’s hair one last time before he heads out, the shocks lingering on his fingers as he emerges into the cold, pre-dawn morning. 


End file.
